


How I Wrote "Elastic Man"

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [83]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Clara Oswald writing a story about the Doctor's failure to write a story. Screenwriter!AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How I Wrote "Elastic Man"

**Author's Note:**

> for resting-meme-face/ferndavant, who prompted: Whouffaldi Douchey!Playwright Doctor/HDIC Clara, pseudo Secretary AU

 

> INT: A CRAMPED BUT CHARMING FLAT - EARLY EVENING
> 
> Lounging on the couch are two young women, or youngish. Neither are particularly convinced of the merits of capital-A Adulthood, although CLARA is at least dressed for success. Old friends, we assume.
> 
> OSGOOD
> 
> My offer to find you a spot in UNIT still stands, you know.
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> And I appreciate that, thank you, but - no offense - your work is incredibly boring.

OSGOOD, taking mock-offense, that was in fact offensive, thank you very much. “And scraping through the dregs of the help-wanted adverts is more interesting, clearly. All those attics that need sorting, the lawns to be conquered, the slave-wage call-centre gigs. Invigorating stuff.”

“How about this one.” Clara shook the newspaper straight and cleared her throat. “Position: personal assistant to a playwright. Full time, wages negotiable. Copy-editing, secretarial blah-blah. _Applicants must be clever and hard-working, independent but ultimately aware they are there to support me.”_

“That’s a red flag,” Osgood said, reaching for another handful of crisps.

“Wait, wait. It gets better. _The creation of art is a difficult, delicate process. Applicants must be willing and able to nurture my vision, and dedicate themselves fully-_ ”

“Nooo,” Osgood moaned, spitting out crisp crumbs.

“- _Dedicate themselves fully to my journey. Must be able to keep secrets_ \- oh, god, they’re a serial killer. _What I tell you in confidence cannot be shared with anyone. Contact the Doctor at_ \- oh, that’s the only name they give. Just The Doctor. What? Why.”

“Please tell me you’re not genuinely considering it.” Osgood leaned over and gently rested her hand on Clara’s, an expression of concern awkwardly emerging.

Clara grinned, squeezed Osgood’s hand. “It’ll make a fantastic story, at least.”

“You know normal people don’t do things just for screenplay fodder,” Osgood said, squinting.

 

* * *

Normal people were boring; Clara was not boring. And she needed to pay rent, so two birds with one stone. She checked her hair and make-up in her compact mirror, then knocked firmly on the serial-killer’s door.

“What d'you want,” came the voice over the intercom. The Doctor, presumably.

“I’m here about the job,” she said brightly. “The personal assistant - ”

“Yeah, yeah. Right. Come up, I guess, if you have to.” The intercom squawked and beeped, and the door unlocked.

A scraggly set of stairs, and then an unlocked door to a cluttered, dimly-lit flat. Two rooms and a man in the middle of one of them. Older, spindly in a softish sort of way, a face made up mostly of eyebrows.

 

>  
> 
> THE ANTAGONIST
> 
> I was genuinely not expecting anyone to respond to that advert.
> 
>  
> 
> OUR HERO
> 
> Well I did. Am. Am responding to that, now. So here we are.

And here they were. Embedded in an awkward pause that took a few seconds too long to end, ample enough time for Clara to reconsider her decision to come here (she didn’t, but she could have).

“So,” she said again. “Doctor - what?”

“Yes,” Doctor What said.

It was like that, then. Fine. “You’re in need of an assistant, I’m in need of a job, possibly we can come to some sort of mutually beneficial agreement?” She spread her arms wide, gesturing around the shape of Potential Employment.

Doctor What frowned, then turned abruptly, shambling off to the other room - bedroom, Clara assumed, though who knew what interior decoration trends were hot with axe murderers this season. “Yeah, fine,” he said. “Manuscript’s on the table. I’m gonna go lie down on the floor and cry for a little bit.”

She smiled cheerfully at his back, hoping he could somehow sense her fake enthusiasm. “D'you need tissues, or some freshen-up wipettes, or-”

“A joke,” he grumbled, half under his breath. Paused at the doorway and not quite turning around, his head tilted vaguely towards her. “That was a joke. I’ll just be staring at the wall. Not crying. Or will I?” He grinned, mouth too full of teeth, then flounced into the Mystery Room, closing the door behind him.

Clara assumed that meant she was employed. By Mr. The Doctor What, currently locked up making effigies out of human hair, or similar. The essay was already beginning to write itself in her head. _The Summer I Spent Working for a Delusional Scriptwriter._ Was McSweeney’s still operating? This was absolutely up McSweeney’s alley. Or Vice, maybe, if she felt like selling her soul.

She looked around at the combo living room/kitchenette that managed to be simultaneously sparse and cluttered, and grabbed the haphazardly bulldog-clipped pile of paper off the table, kicked the single solitary chair of Friendlessness out and sat down, rummaging through her purse for a red pen.

 

She used the red pen a lot. Twenty pages in, she gave up. She knocked on the mystery door, knocked and knocked and knocked again until it finally cracked open a hair, Mr. The Doctor Which’s manic eye (and eyebrow) peeking through.

“This is a joke, right?” She waved the manuscript at him, pages flapping.

“I don’t joke.” He squeezed through the doorway without widening the gap between door and jamb, liquid and louche as a cat.

“You made a joke and then announced it was a joke half an hour ago. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. More importantly: this is awful.”

He stared at her. A clock was ticking, somewhere. She discreetly wiped her sweaty palms off on her trousers.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s garbage.”

“And you want me to fix it.”

“I suppose. If you’d like.”

 

>  
> 
> OUR HERO, baffled and frustrated. She’s not entirely sure what she signed up for but it certainly wasn’t this.
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> You wanted an editor, stroke assistant, stroke miscellaneous - why am I here, if you don’t care about the script?
> 
>  
> 
> PROFESSOR WHO CARES
> 
> My agent said I should get…help.

“Help,” she repeated. “Okay.”

“I’m actually a complete and utter fucking sham,” he continued blithely. “Haven’t done anything worthwhile since the 80’s, and I wouldn’t even bother trying for a comeback except apparently if you’re successful once, people expect you to deliver again. And they give you advance payments, so you have to at least pretend to be writing.”

“You were successful?” she asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.

“Once. Well, a few times. Mostly on the strength of the performances and an indiscriminate but passionate audience.”

“And then?”

“Then I got bored. And tired.” He shrugged, then stalked over to the fridge, swinging the door open dramatically.

(She sneaked a look: condiments, mostly. Some individually packaged servings of yogurt. Half of what could be a sandwich, of undetermined makeup.)

“What I’m really looking for is for someone to come by often enough to make it appear as if I care, and possibly go pick up my dry-cleaning. Still interested?” He shoved a spoon into a yogurt cup, and then the spoon into his mouth, sucking on it in a way that might be lascivious if it weren’t also obliviously sloppy.

She was still interested. More interested than before. Not for the right reasons, but hey, no one’s perfect. She reached out to shake his hand - he juggled the spoon, chewing a mouthful of yogurt and bits as he grasped her hand, not shaking so much as clutching and vibrating.

“It’s a deal, then,” he said, then swanned back off into the bedroom.

 

Clara left after that, the manuscript crammed into her purse and the door left slightly ajar, just because. She’d stuck a post-it with her name and number on the fridge: a commitment, sort of.

 

* * *

 

> OUR HERO is tired, but pretending not to be, pouring wine into a mug. Her cellphone pressed to her ear as she mutters vague remarks. Yep, uh huh, absolutely.
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> Yes, it is weird. The best kind of weird. Award-winning dramatic essay-documentary weird.
> 
>  
> 
> OSGOOD
> 
> You’ll wind up dead in a ditch, you realize. At least at UNIT you know these things going in.
> 
> Are you certain you’re not interested in an actual job? Which I called in several favors for you to get?
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> Absolutely. Just - please, stop worrying. I’m fine.

 

* * *

The second draft was still trash.

“Honestly it feels like you’re trying to write poorly,” she said over the phone.

“That’s a possibility.” Between the poor cell reception in her flat and Mr The Doctor’s fluctuating Scottish burr, it’s a wonder the syllables coalesced into anything meaningful.

“You’re spending time and effort faking it, right? So why not just go a step further and…actually do the damn work.”

“Anyone can do something. It takes talent to _pretend_ to do something. Just ask an actor.”

Clara pinched the bridge of her nose, counted to ten, breathed deeply and evenly. “This is a crazy idea, but hear me out: what if you pretended to know what you were doing?”

“’M not an actor,” he mumbled. “Just being honest about the creative process, you know?”

“Are you - hggh,” she said, then grunted, in that order. “Okay. Right. Fuck you. Either start giving even half a damn or I start writing my expose on the fan-favorite BBC workhorse turned cynical hack jobbing through and then being blacklisted from the soaps. Yes, I _did_ look you up on IMDB, how do you like them apples.”

 

 

> THE ANTAGONIST does not, in fact, like them apples. THE ANTAGONIST also requires a brief rundown on American-English idioms before understanding why it is he has a philosophical opinion on metaphorical fruit. OUR HERO obliges, with diagrams and a ten-page PowerPoint slideshow.

 

 

* * *

**A List of Minor Complaints From a Well-Meaning PA to a Marginally Successful Creative Type  
_By Clara Oswald_**

  * The toilet paper here is one-ply
  * I understand I do not get a co-writing credit but any credit at all would be appreciated thank you
  * Is this what made your ex-wife leave? The constant self-defeating self-pity? Or was it the fear that you are actually a giant spider-alien-thing in disguise
  * There is a hole in the wall in the kitchen just above the oven through which mice sometimes appear and this would bother even the most open-minded person
  * You promised a raise by the holidays but the holidays have passed with no raise; if threats of violence are required for career advancement, please say so
  * Sometimes you look almost attractive and that is frankly unfair
  * If I Google Search ‘attracted to shitty boss’ does that stay in my internet history and if so, is internet history something a technologically-incompetent shitty boss is aware of



 

Sometimes he looked almost attractive and that was frankly unfair. The Doctor Whatever, eating marmalade straight from the jar, with his uncombed shock of gray hair and his increasingly less presentable outfits. Ancient hoodies and pajamas accessorized by a frank refusal to ever get anything done. 

“You’re useless,” she said, emboldened by two weeks of witnessing him not give a shit.

His hand stuttered, just a bit, spoon bumping against his teeth.

“Discipline,” she continued. “That’s what you need. No more waffling around. You’ll sit down, and you’ll fucking _write_ , and then you’ll rewrite until this isn’t complete shite.” The latest manuscript, much the same as the previous manuscript, clenched in her hand.

His hand stuttered again, the whole all of him stuttered, gears clearly grinding. He cringed away from her, body curled protectively around itself (and the jam jar).

Fear. She could work with fear.

 

> THE ANTAGONIST sitting at the typewriter - it’s a laptop, really, but that doesn’t have the same oomph and ambiance as a typewriter - THE ANTAGONIST/LOVE INTEREST (??) sitting at his desk behind the typewriter, a piece of paper fed in, hands hovering over the keys.
> 
> OUR HERO hovers over him, although less hesitant, more with the promise of some sort of violence. A threat, thinly-veiled.
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> Stop thinking. Just do.
> 
>  

Stop wasting time, stop skirting the issue. This tentative mealy-mouthed bullshit kills too many scripts. The Doctor sat at his desk, hands afraid and cringing away from the keys of his typewriter. She came up behind him and bent over, hands braced on the desk, arms hard up against his.

His breath catching, like everything about him was always just - catching. Caught up on something. Caught, and pulling, and ripping.

“Leaving you alone didn’t work,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Gentle encouragement didn’t work. Positive thinking and organization didn’t work. So what’s left, huh? Besides giving up, which I know you want to do, and let’s be honest - is really your best option right now.”

He typed out something that wasn’t words, hands flinching, the fists he would have made if QWERTY wasn’t in the way.

“Does shame work for you? Would that light the fire? To be embarrassed at how little you’ve accomplished? To be reminded of the fact that you’re a sad old man can’t even work up the energy or ability to write a marginal episode for a crap science fiction television show. Knowing how far you’ve fallen from those BAFTA-award winning heights.”

 

 

> OUR HERO losing sight, somewhat, of what it is she’s meant to be doing. She leans down, her chest pressing into his back, and wraps her hands around his wrists. THE ANTAGONIST breathing hard, almost shaking. The tension, the knowledge of what it is they’re nearly doing.
> 
>  

His forehead hit the typewriter, punching out nonsense. Better than anything he’d meant to write. She saved that line, for later, a rainy day, when he wasn’t so obviously already capitulating. Her hands tightening around his wrists, his fingers flexing. The swallowed-up noises he was making. She hoped, she hoped it _hurt_. Her nails digging into his skin.

“All that squandered potential. What do you have, really, beyond the memories of when you were worth something? No friends, no family, only the barest semblance of a career. You’re _nothing_.”

“This is why I wanted an assistant,” he choked out.

“I thought your agent told you to hire someone.”

“Yeah, well. I lied. Are you happy? I fucking - _Christ._ ”

 

 

> CLARA pulls him up off the chair, spins him roughly around. He goes willingly.
> 
>  
> 
> CLARA
> 
> Is this what you want?
> 
>  
> 
> THE DOCTOR
> 
> I don’t - I don’t know.
> 
> [He does know. So does she.]
> 
>  

He was bigger, or longer at least, but she was stronger; she pushed him back against the desk, hands leaving his wrists to explore the rest of him, digging hard into his hips, the faint bit of pudge above his belt, the bottom edge of his ribcage beneath his thin t-shirt. Chest, shoulders, neck, her thumbs sliding below his jaw. The shaky, shuddering breaths he was taking, her corresponding squirmy arousal. She thought about kissing him on his thin, smug lips.

And she pulled back, staring at him, trying not to betray her approval - he did look good like that, mussed-up and panting, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Stay there,” she said. “Don’t move. Not an inch.”

“Yes Ma'am.”

She could’ve gone for her purse, which contained a few hopeful condoms and a bottle of ‘massage oil’. She didn’t, though. Just surreptitiously rearranged her skirt, fighting the urge to clench her thighs, and leaned back, watching him sweat.

“You stay at this desk and you write something real. Doesn’t have to be good. Just has to be honest.”

He held her gaze, hands balled into fists by his side, hips at a truly suggestive angle (and a gratifying bulge under his ridiculous plaid trousers). “Or what.”

“Or I go, and you never know what you could have accomplished if only you had an…incentive.” She gave him a slow, deliberate, lingering once-over.

“Right,” he said. “Okay. Yeah, why not.”

 

 

> OUR HERO, triumphant. Why not indeed.
> 
>  

“So go on then,” she said, walking away. It was late enough, time to be heading home. They could pick this up the next morning.

“Go on,” she said as she slipped through the door, pulling it closed slowly behind her. “Show me something _amazing_.”


End file.
